


Hynerian Blues

by vinegardog



Category: Farscape
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinegardog/pseuds/vinegardog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rygel is homesick</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hynerian Blues

Written for the 8th Terra Firma Beach Bash – a celebration of our beloved DominarRygel XVI.

Setting and Spoilers: Set approximately 6 cycles after PKWars. No major spoilers.

Rated: G

Disclaimer: He is not my puppet – he is nobody’s puppet! Well, in truth, he is the Jim Henson Company’s puppet… but please don’t tell him, he won’t like it! 

Word count: 2043

My thanks to A Damned Scientist for yet again being my beta for this. You are a star, ADS!

Hynerian Blues (PG)

It had taken five cycles.

Five long cycles of hard, unrelenting work. 

It had required gritty determination, brilliant planning, steely resolve and, when necessary, compassion and leniency but the task had finally been accomplished. He could safely say he had done it. His realm finally ran smoothly - or as smoothly as a realm of 60 billion subjects could possibly run. 

All subversive pockets of sedition and resistance to his rightful return to his throne had now been well and truly snuffed out. 

The most recent reports from his functionaries and administrators from Hyneria and all of its satellite planets confirmed what the reinstated Dominar had been certain of for a good while now: his people were finally embracing the new hard-fought-for and won peace. Industry, commerce and agriculture were once again flourishing and making marvellously rich profits for the empire, just like in the old golden times of his illustrious ancestor, Rygel the Great. Hyneria was again well on its way to regain its rightful place amongst the greatest powers of the galaxy. 

All this, of course, had been possible thanks to his indisputable shrewdness, immense governing ability and considerable intelligence. Of that, Rygel XVI had absolutely no doubt.

Slowly but surely, over time, he had wisely surrounded himself with the most able and deserving ministers, aides, military officers, commanders and administrators that he could find. Initiative, determination, honesty and bravery had been sought out and, when found, rewarded with assignments and ranks that in the past had traditionally been reserved for the more-often- than- not lazy, vain, useless member s of the aristocratic families of Hyneria. Not any longer. Rygel XVI knew precisely what qualities he wanted in the people around him, the people who would be running his extensive state affairs on a day to day basis. He had learnt a lot of lessons during his long captivity in Peacekeeper hands and even more so in the five cycles following his escape. And he had put them to good use. He could be called a lot of things, but a fool he was not!

His revolutionary ideas, so brilliantly applied to every strata of society, had earned the aging Dominar an enormous amount of respect among his people. His subjects were honoured to call him their leader, his functionaries sought and accepted his advice, his vast harem of concubines doted on him and his closest aides at court fussed and worried about his every need and desire with genuine affection.

All in all, he should have been a very happy Dominar indeed.

And yet, in the last couple of monens those closest to him had come to notice a touch of listlessness in his normally energetic and decisive demeanour. Their leader had, little by little, become a little lethargic, at times strangely moody. Those who knew him best had come to detect more and more often just the smallest hint of inexplicable sadness and melancholy in his eyes, and they worried, filling their minds and gossip with wild speculations as to why. When asked if anything was the matter, however, Rygel XVI would just shrug the anxious queries off with a grunt and a curt dismissal firmly discouraging any further probing.

The most concerned Hynerian at the Royal Court was K’Rallo. 

K’Rallo had become the Dominar’s personal valet, confidante, counsellor and overall factotum since Rygel’s whirlwind return to Hyneria. He was a serious, 150 cycle year old male who had shown his loyalty to the returned ruler over and over again in every possible way and who took his duties to his master very seriously. 

Of late, he had been keeping a very close eye on his sovereign’s maudlin mood swings and erratic behaviour but had somehow managed to keep his counsel and remain quiet. However, when Rygel XVI had started losing weight and had shrunk from his healthy erstwhile plumpness to just a shadow of his former self, K’Rallo had started to worry that maybe the real cause of the spiritual malaise afflicting him might be of a physical nature. He had therefore made discreet inquiries with the royal diagnosans and had begged them to pay attention with even more care than usual to tell-tale signs of possible illnesses.

Days, then weekens had gone by without the royal physicians having being able to diagnose any specific ailment that might explain the Dominar’s slow descent into depression and his alarming loss of weight. K’Rallo was at his wits’ end.

The joyous day of the fifth anniversary of Rygel’s triumphant return had finally dawned. Festivals and street parties were to take place all over the realm in celebration and a magnificent day long banquet had started at the royal palace with guests coming from near and far to take part in the splendid festivities. 

Dressed in the most sumptuous of garments, Rygel XVI sat with head bowed at the top of the opulent table. Dozens of platters laden with his favourite foods, devotedly prepared by the royal chefs, had been laid out in front of him in the hope they would entice and revive his appetite. But it was all to no avail. Rygel just picked apathetically at the rich morsels of food on his plate and showed no interest whatsoever in the purposely cheerful topics that were being discussed all around him by his advisors and concerned friends. The very picture of misery, he sat and brooded. Finally, with a sigh, he dropped the useless eating utensil he was holding onto the table top with a clang, gave up the half-hearted attempt he had made at feigning interest in filling his three stomachs and signalled to the servants hovering nearby to clear the food away.

Silence descended in the royal banquet hall. Several sets of eyes exchanged worried glances and several set of thick Hynerian eye-brows furrowed into frowns. After a further prolonged sigh followed by a grunt, Rygel XVI startled the worried onlookers when, abruptly, he lifted his head, sat up straighter in his ornate chair, stared at each of them in turn and in a strong, clear voice, which had been absent and missed for so long, declared:

“Listen to me carefully!”

Eager nods met this request.

“You have exactly seven solar days to procure me the following.” He paused to give weight to the instructions he was about to issue.

“I want you to find me several reels of the softest woollen yarn and the finest silk fabric you can acquire. Lots of it. Black and grey, no other colour. I will accept no less than fifty shades of grey!”

Puzzled looks met this request until, jolted into action, one of his aides found his voice: “Consider it done, Your Majesty!” and proceeded to whir away in his sled to see to it.

“Secondly, I want you to find me the softest leather in all of the land. Black. Then get the royal seamstresses to fashion it into clothes fit for a king. A king of ungainly male Sebacean size.”

“Sebacean, Your Majesty? Surely…” K’Rallo asked before being brusquely stopped in his query.

“Yes, Sebacean! You heard me right! Do not interrupt!” Rygel dismissed the question with a quick wave of his hand.

“Thirdly.” He continued “Assemble twenty or thirty of the most effective pulse weapons developed by my royal armoury. Only the very best and most sophisticated ones will do. See to it that their grips be modified to suit a Sebacean hand.” 

Two more aides whirred off to execute the last couple of orders.

“Next. Get the royal chefs to gather the most aromatic herbs and spices grown in all of the empire. Especially the ones suitable for stews.” K’Rallo’s eyes brightened with joy at this particular request. He let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, the Dominar was finally getting back his proverbial appetite.

“Then I want toys! Crates of them. The best, most amusing and educational possible, suitable for a 6 cycle old half-Sebacean boy.” He paused for a short moment in deep thought, then changed his demand: “No, make them suitable for an 8 cycle year old boy! I am willing to bet the boy in question is far more advanced than his actual age. He is my godson after all!” K’Rallo’s brief spark of joy dimmed once again at this most unusual of wishes. A small worm of doubt about Rygel XVI’s sanity started to wiggle uncomfortably around in his chest. Godson? What the yotz was a godson?

“Finally,” the Dominar continued “I want you to find me audio-chips of songs by the best Delvian soloists. The most melodious, most accomplished ones out there, only the very best will do!”

“But, Sire, Delvian music? I am pretty sure that there is none to be had in Hyneria. It is quite unpleasant to our ears and no Hynerian connoisseur would ever…” K’Rallo protested before being promptly interrupted again.

“K’Rallo, don’t be so narrow minded! Hynerian tastes are not the only ones that matter in the universe! I don’t care how you do it, find some! Send ships, dispatch couriers to nearby empires…just do it! No expenses or efforts are to be spared!”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I will attend to it forthwith. Is there anything else you desire?”

“Yes, K’Rallo.The most important assignment of all. Get my military commanders and intelligence officers on to the task of locating a Leviathan. A golden, adult female. Her name is Moya…” Rygel’s voice trailed off after voicing the last sentence. K’Ralloand the others present were surprised and moved by the soft, wistful way their Dominar had uttered the name and could not help but wonder at the meaning of the mistiness that suddenly appeared in his eyes.

After a microt or two, Rygel XVI coughed with slight embarrassment at his momentary emotional lapse and resumed in a more matter-of- fact tone: “Her last communication came from the Selka nebula. Tell my officers to find her and, failing that, get them to pinpoint the place of her most recent sighting. Ready my royal fleet, prepare my flagship and get my First Admiral to set the most direct course for those co-ordinates. I leave in exactly seven solar days, not a microt later!”

“Leave, Your Majesty? But what about the numerous official state engagements scheduled for the next few weekens…?”

“No ‘buts’ K’Rallo! Cancel all of my appointments, clear my schedule for the foreseeable short term future. That is all, you are dismissed!”

K’Rallo inclined his head and started to bow his leave but was reprimanded:

“By all the Hynerian Gods, K’Rallo, stop yotzing about! Don’t waste time! Go and find me that Leviathan!”

Having given his orders, Rygel grunted, pleased with himself for finally formulating a plan and moving swiftly about making it happen. He was, after all, a Dominar of action! 

The decision had been too long in coming. 

Over the cycles he had issued many invitations to Moya and her crew to come enjoy his largesse. All had been gratefully received but also gracefully declined for various more or less valid reasons. 

Enough was enough, Rygel thought. Suddenly one of the fahrbot Human’s sayings popped into his head: if Mohamed will not go to the mountain, the mountain must go to Mohamed. 

Granted, in this situation Rygel was not all too clear as to whether he was the mountain or Mohamed – whoever or whatever Mohamed was. He shrugged to himself, the Human’s gibberish had never made any sense to him but somehow he thought this expression might be fitting to the occasion and anyway, it felt good to remember Crichton’s nonsensical babble, so why deny it to oneself?

He was a proud Hynerian but he was not too proud to admit this one thing: he had missed Moya. He had missed his friends. A little thrilling shiver of anticipation shook his diminutive body at the thought of soon seeing them all again.

It might only be for a brief visit -a short, badly needed interlude - but Dominar Rygel XVI was going home.

The thought made him happy. The thought also made him hungry.

“Bring me marjoules!” He ordered in the general direction of some of his servants. His stomachs grumbled loudly and, as an afterthought, he added: “…And a large platter of crispy grolack!” Then he finally relaxed, slumped back in his throne, smiling, and exhaled a contented sigh.

The End.


End file.
